


Emerald Eyes

by PondAmyPond



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Imprisonment, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Puzzles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PondAmyPond/pseuds/PondAmyPond
Summary: Sherlock is bored. Until a mysterious woman walks into his living room with an invitation from her sister. Sherlock is fascinated by the case and, although he won't admit it, by the woman with the piercing emerald eyes and the pretty smile. As he gets to know her, will he be able to admit his feelings? And when she is put in danger, how far is he willing to go to get her back?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This entire story came to me in a dream. It is set in an alternate universe just after John has got married. Irene Adler does not exist in this universe. I think that's all you need to know? Enjoy!

The maze was huge, complex, and driving him slowly mad. The girl watched him walk around it in circles, or occasionally actually walking  _ into _ the glass. He was disappointing. The last one had done better, but he still hadn’t managed to complete her puzzle. She had tried a different incentive with this one, but she thought it probably wouldn’t make much difference. He was just too  _ stupid _ to solve her puzzle. They were all too STUPID! She threw herself at the desk, swiping the monitor, the box, and all the papers onto the floor in one motion. Then she sat back down in the chair and picked up the microphone. 

“Mr Davis, you have failed to complete the maze in the time I gave you.” The man on the screen, now sideways and crackling on the floor, looked around in panic and started to beg.

“P-p-p-please, my wife, I can’t fail, I just need more time-” The girl looked at him with hate. She abhorred the begging. It was the worst part of the experiment, but it happened every time. 

“ENOUGH! You had time, and you failed. Your wife will be disposed of, as we discussed.” The man began to sob and fell to his knees. He seemed to be wailing something but whatever it was, it was uninteresting to the girl. 

“If it is any consolation, Mr Davis, you will also be disposed of shortly afterwards. Goodbye.” Clicking off the microphone, she watched the flickering screen for a moment longer as a security guard dragged Mr Davis away. She did not care about him anymore. He had disappointed her. “STUPID!” The word ripped through her like fire and screamed out at the empty office like a gunshot. She sank back into her chair and began to think. She’d been going about this wrong, evidently. She needed someone clever, not normally clever,  _ really _ clever. But how would she motivate him? A slow smile spread across her face and she leaned into the microphone once more. 

“Bring me prisoner twelve.” This was going to be  _ very _ interesting. 

 

……… 

 

BANG! BANG! The gunshots rang out in quick succession, followed immediately by a thumping of footsteps up the staircase. The door to the flat was flung open to reveal a tall man with dark curly hair standing in his blue silk dressing gown pointing a smoking gun at the wall in front of him. 

“Sherlock Holmes! Will you stop shooting my wall?!” Mrs Hudson screeched. Sherlock looked at her witheringly and let out another shot, the noise of it making the older lady jump almost out of her skin.

“BORED, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock explained. 

“Perhaps you can fix the bullet holes in my wall to pass your time?” Mrs Hudson exclaimed sarcastically. They both knew this would not be happening any time soon, if ever. “Anyway, your client might not appreciate you shooting while she’s here!” Mrs Hudson added, gesturing to the hallway behind her.

“Client?” Sherlock questioned. “I wasn’t expecting any clients today.” 

“Well shall I ask her to go away?” Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock in a manner that reminded him of a bull looking at a bullfighter, daring him to charge. 

“No, no, send her up.”

Mrs Hudson nodded and walked back down the stairs to fetch the client. Sherlock moved in a flurry, throwing off his dressing gown, checking his shirt for stains (thank goodness he was wearing the black one), and throwing on the suit jacket that hung over the kitchen chair. He was not the sort that groomed himself for every woman, but it was unprofessional to meet clients in one’s dressing gown (or so he had been forcibly told by both John and Mrs Hudson, and he wanted to stay on her good side today). 

The sound of a knock at the door reached his ears, barely. It was tentative and shy, but the woman did not wait for him to tell her to come in before she pushed the door open. She was taller than average, reasonably attractive, she had dyed her hair at least twice in the last six months although currently it was a pretty shade of black that had red tints in it when it caught the light. Her clothes were pretty, obviously not new, they fitted better when they were bought than they did now, but her jumper was just the right shade of green to bring out the emerald in her eyes, and the jeans were still hugging all the right places…

It was at this point in his observations about the mysterious woman that Sherlock took note of how many times the word “pretty” had crossed his mind, and how fascinated he was with her eyes. It wasn’t just the colour of them, although they were beautiful, it was the quality of them. There was something there, just behind her smile, that made him think she wasn’t here for herself. Or, at least, she didn’t want to come. 

“Won’t you take a seat?” he asked, gesturing to the client’s chair that stood, as always, in the center of the living room floor. He glanced briefly at John’s chair, but it was empty (John was still on his honeymoon and would not be back for some weeks yet). The woman moved across the room gently, like she was afraid of breaking something. Or maybe it was that she was afraid of breaking herself. The tremor in her left leg as she walked told of a past trauma, possibly inflicted on purpose. And the grip on her handbag was so tight it was turning her knuckles white. She was afraid, but trying not to show it. She smiled at Sherlock as she sat, looking up at him standing by the fireplace, hands steepled under his chin. He smiled back, and then stopped immediately.  _ What was that? He never smiled at clients. He hardly smiled at John, let alone a stranger. _  She sat with her legs crossed, the denim of her dark wash jeans rustling slightly as she shifted in her seat. Her hands were twisted together, her thumb stroking the back of the opposite hand, fidgeting. Sherlock sat in his own chair abruptly. He watched her carefully, suddenly aware that in all the time she had been in the room, she had yet to say a single word.

“Do you speak?” he asked, in a manner that would have made John sigh pointedly. Rude. Nevermind, John wasn’t here. 

“Sometimes,” the woman smiled at him.  _ Clever. Quippy. Strangely different from the fear. Defense mechanism? _

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here, or shall I ask Mrs Hudson to show you out?” Sherlock replied. 

“You wouldn’t do that, Mr Holmes. I’m interesting, aren’t I? You like interesting.” The woman seemed sure of herself now that he had engaged her in conversation. He watched her eyes slide over him, as if she was conducting her own set of deductions about him. She was right.  _ Interesting _ . 

“But I suppose I should play fair. It’s hardly polite of me to ask you to prove yourself by telling me why I came here-”

“Your sister.” Sherlock interrupted her. “You came here because your sister asked you to.” 

The woman looked shocked. He had ruffled her facade a little, she hadn’t expected him to guess that so quickly. “Yes. How did you know that?” 

Sherlock sighed. She was one of  _ those _ clients. The ones who wanted to know  _ how _ . But underneath the sigh there was something else. A rush of something that he always got when he was showing off for someone. It was usually John, but the woman with the emerald eyes was fascinating, so he didn’t mind the substitution. 

“Your jeans and top aren’t new, the fashion is at least five years out of date, but you feel comfortable in them and you know they’re flattering to your figure, so you wore them to make yourself feel more confident. You need to feel more confident, because you’re afraid of why you’re here. If you were here on a mission for yourself, you would be less afraid of being here because you would feel you were closer to solving your problem. Your knock was tentative, as if you didn’t want me to hear you, but you came in without being asked so you also feel that you  _ have _ to be here, whether or not you want to be. Therefore, somebody else, has asked you to come to me with a problem. Your handbag is new, you’re gripping it tightly but the leather handle is still stiff and there are no grooves that suggest it’s been submitted to this treatment a lot. A gift maybe? The tag is still sticking out of the corner of the bag, ‘love Big Sis x’. A gift in exchange for you doing her this favour.”

There was a moment of silence while the woman looked at Sherlock. Her expression was somewhere between awe and amusement. Sherlock cocked his head to one side and looked back.

“You have gorgeous eyes,” the woman said eventually. Sherlock started. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. She was supposed to say he was brilliant or clever, or just say ‘wow’ like everyone else did. “You do, really. They can’t decide if they’re blue or green, and they swim between both when you’re deducing things. It’s beautiful.” 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say in the face of compliments. “Umm… What does your sister want from me?”  _ The case, stick to the case. Ignore that she’s pretty. Ignore that there’s a gap in her front teeth that she puts her tongue in when she smiles. Stop thinking about her smile. STICK TO THE CASE. _

“She’s inviting you to visit, Mr Holmes. She wants you to come and see her.”  _ Fascinating. This woman gets more interesting by the second _ .

“Is she an old friend? No, wait, that’s ridiculous, I don’t have friends.” Sherlock replied, thinking out loud. 

“You have friends, Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson has been a friend to you in so many ways, as has Molly Hooper, and Mrs Hudson, and Greg Lestrade. Even your brother looks out for you, in his own way. I’d say you have incredible taste in friends. I know what it is to not have any friends, please don’t insult me or them by saying they don’t have value to you.” 

The woman was suddenly very passionate, not shouting, but quietly angry. He had made her angry. Sherlock looked at her again, drawn out of his head by her outburst, and saw that her eyes were shiny with tears.  _ Oh no, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. _ To his surprise, the thought was not one of exasperation, but of tenderness. He handed her a handkerchief from his pocket, and watched her carefully as she dabbed at her eyes.  _ What was it about this woman? _

“Do you have a name?” he asked, more gently than usual. 

“Francesca. Francesca Forrest, although my sister calls me Essa.” Francesca smiled at him. “You could too, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Essa,” Sherlock found himself oddly touched by the gesture. He could sense it meant something more than just words. “Where would your sister like me to visit her?” 

“Oh, you can’t know that just yet. She says you have to get to know me first. I’m supposed to test you.” Essa looked worried, as if the tests she was supposed to administer were not of her choosing and they concerned her greatly. 

“I- I have to get to know you?” Sherlock repeated. 

Essa stood up to leave.  _ No! Wait, not yet! _ “Yes, Sherlock. Dinner, at eight?”

Sherlock nodded, dumbfounded as he watched her leave the room. He noted that there was a spring in her step that wasn’t there before, and that the way her hips swayed when she walked away was rather hypnotic.  _ Yes, Sherlock _ . The way that she had said his name rolled around in his head like the thunder of a clock tower bell. It sang in his mind and he could see her tongue wrapping around every syllable.  _ Why was he so captured by her? Essa. Essa with the emerald eyes. Beautiful. Dinner, at eight. Purple shirt? _

That last thought spurred him into action. He looked at the clock. Four hours had passed since Essa had left, and it was almost half past seven. He jumped up and ran to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from this dinner, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss a second of it. 


End file.
